


Tender Handling

by stacy_l



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Adult Content, M/M, Male Slash, POV First Person, Sexual Content, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-08
Updated: 2015-04-08
Packaged: 2018-03-21 23:32:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3707455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stacy_l/pseuds/stacy_l
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack contemplates.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tender Handling

**Author's Note:**

> This story was originally posted in December 2006 and serves as a response to a table fic prompt# 038: Touch from the stargatefic100 LiveJournal challenge community for my Jack/Daniel table.

**Jack’s POV**

Hands are a simple thing, yet so complex. Some people have big hands, some small, some have perfect hands and yet others have scarred hands. Each person is given two hands at birth. Some people are unfortunate and lose one in an accident or lose the use of them due to disease, while others can’t survive without them. 

Hands are used for many things. They’re used to grasp, to write, to draw, to speak, to feel and to create. Some need their hands to survive, they’re hands are their eyes to guide them, or their tools to help them speak. Others use their hands for creativity. Some use them to paint beautiful pictures, to draw amazing places, to sketch a scene before them, to write a tale of fantasy and yet others use them to build and shape things into existence. Each person is given a special talent, a special ability, and hands become one of those tools used to share that talent with others. They are used for a variety of different things and make it possible to do so much. Each pair of hands serves a purpose, each is a unique set given to a unique person, and there is one particular set of hands that fascinates me more than all others… They are big hands with long tapered fingers that stretch and bend as he speaks, as he explains, as he expresses himself… Hands that have palms now roughened with age and covered with calluses showing to all the intensity of his work. Those hands are so soft and so smooth yet have been hardened and strengthened over time. Some of his fingers are nicked and scarred, having been damaged by past experiences and serving as yet another indicator of the job he performs daily in his life, and though they bear permanent marks they are unique, a true extension of himself. He uses them to speak with people, to touch history, to offer comfort to the wounded, love and support to a friend and pleasure to the one he loves above all others. 

If his hands could tell their own story one would see that they are as complex as the man who owns them. They have many uses and serve many purposes: when he is angry he uses them to get his point across, when he is in danger he uses them to defend himself, when he is in doubt he uses them to assure himself, when he is in need of comfort he uses them to pull me to him, when he sees I’m in pain he uses them to take the pain away, when I’m stressed he uses them to massage my tension away, when he sees that I’m in need he uses them to help me and when we’re together, alone in the late hours of the night he uses them to love me. His hands they glide so delicately across my flesh stirring pleasure and heat deep within me. He uses his hands to speak to me, to tell me things that run too deep for him to put words to. 

With his hands he tells me that he loves me, that he cherishes me, that he needs me, that he wants me… When we make love his hands project those things too powerful for him to speak aloud. As we prepare to share ourselves with one another his hands begin to tell me the depth of what he feels for me. As he gazes at me, staring deeply into my eyes he licks his lips, but does not speak, not with words, never with words. Instead he uses his hands in every movement and every gesture of his fingers, every stroke of his thumb across my cheek, every faint trace of his pointer finger across my lips, every tender graze across the side of my face, every dainty brush of fingers across my skin, with every movement of his hands he tells me those things he cannot yet put voice to. 

As he kisses me deeply his hands are already moving down to tug my t-shirt out of my pants. He uses them to undress me while he continues to kiss me. Once I’m undressed those hands become brazen dragging across my body, stroking my belly, my chest and my arms as he begins to please me. 

In his arms I feel loved, I feel desirable and I feel needed. His hands are so powerful, so unbelievably beautiful: long tapered fingers that grapple and clasp, fingers that glide smoothly across my skin, setting my heart to racing. Fingers that hush me as I open my mouth to speak, fingers that grasp so firmly around me making me rear up, arching into him and setting him to chuckling. Fingers that begin to pump me so slowly, playing me so beautifully while drawing gasps of pleasure and sighs of delight from deep within me… Fingers that probe and explore, breaching my inner core, working their magic, pushing me to the brink and beyond. Fingers that belong to hands that grip me tightly to him as he pulls me into his loving arms… 

As he draws me against him and we settle once more in the bed those fingers, those hands, remain idle for several moments before his left hand reaches up to cup my face and turn me towards his eager mouth. As he kisses me his right hand works to draw me tighter against him and as we break the kiss I reach up to capture that wayward hand in mine, turning the palm towards me, marveling at the omniscient beauty of my lover’s hands, and as he gazes at my hand holding his he turns it and entwines his fingers firmly within mine.

 

** The End **


End file.
